Death's visit had been short, it had lasted no longer than ten minutes, and yet it left Harry reeling. For three weeks he had coped with the idea of being the bearer of the Hallows, the supposed 'Master of Death' by ignoring it all; he wanted nothing to do with the madness so he simply went on with life as if the stone were still lost in the forest, the cloak was still folded neatly in his trunk, and the wand was safe in Dumbledore's cold, dead hands. And the crazy thing was, it had worked. For three weeks there were no voices, no inexplicable visions, no blinding, back arching pain, and, yeah, maybe their absence had more to do with his being locked away from pretty much any human contact, but who was he to look a gift horse in the mouth?
But of course he had to go and ruin it all in one moment of inebriated stupidity. The whole thing could have been avoided, he knew that; he should have just visited the graves of his deceased friends, brought them some flowers, talked to them there like a normal person, the sort of person he was always making a fuss about wishing he could be. Instead he'd gone and consulted a book of some of the darkest arts in an asinine attempt to summon Fred, Remus, Tonks, and maybe a few others (he still wasn't sure what he would have done or even said if he'd actually succeeded).
He had half of a mind to just forget everything Death had told him about the Heart and its power and being his equal and go back to ignoring anything to do with the Hallows, but now that he knew exactly what it meant to have conquered them, now that he knew that he couldn't die and had a whole host of strange abilities to look forward to manifesting in the coming years, that was just a bit harder to do. He didn't want to be Death's master, or equal, or whatever the hell his official title was, he was sick to death of being different, but at the same time he wanted to learn to control what he'd be able to do, he wanted to be able to go out again without being accosted by the dead. So he ventured into the Black family home's library, he scoured the shelf for instructionals on Occlumency and how to 'clear his mind', he spent days among the dusty shelves reading and researching so intently he knew even Hermione would be impressed. And yet his tireless efforts yielded absolutely nothing.
There were plenty of books on Occlumency, almost too many to count, but they all spoke only of the theory of the art, not how to actually go about performing it.
"Not all books be kept in the library." Was Kreacher's explanation when Harry asked him about this phenomenon. "Too many too keep so Mistress kept them safe with the goblins."
Gringotts. Of course the damned books were being kept in the same bank he'd more than likely gotten himself banned for life from. The goblins, no doubt, were no longer any fans of his, but he needed those books and if it meant he'd have to do an embarrassing amount of groveling and pleading for forgiveness, well, he'd suck it up and do it.
Harry held off until the early evening before venturing into Diagon Alley, by then the worst of the lunch rush had passed and he was able to slip through the streets and up to the bank unmolested. Gringotts had been returned to its usual pristine (if not somewhat crooked) condition in the short time he'd been away, it bore no signs of his, Ron, and Hermione's escape via dragon, which he hoped would go some way in diminishing the goblins' ire toward him. At least he and his friends hadn't inflicted permanent damage upon the structure.
Not a single goblin looked his way when he stepped through the doors, but there was no doubt in his mind that they were all hyper aware of his presence. The weight of their disdainful attention did nothing to lessen his unease as he crossed the hall to the goblin furthest from the handful of wizarding patrons, the few wizards present were too interested in their own transactions to notice his arrival, but he felt no need to risk it.
Harry bestowed the unimpressed goblin with a quivering smile and dipped his head in a nervous little bow. "Hello, I'm Harry Potter. If you don't mind, I'd like to speak with the uh…the goblin in charge?" Silently, he cursed himself, he should have looked into what the head goblin of Gringotts was referred to as before coming here.The goblin looked down on him with flinty eyes. "What is your purpose here, Mr. Potter?"
"I just wanted to say sorry. I mean-I wanted to apologize, formally apologize for my actions against this establishment, and I wanted to offer any reparations that you would take. Monetary or otherwise."
The goblin glared, expressionless, at Harry long enough for him to begin fidgeting nervously with his fingers, he seriously contemplated turning around and leaving. But then the goblin snorted disdainfully and reached for a translucent, quartz-like stone on the edge of his work station. He flipped it upside down and immediately it began letting off a soft, blue glow.
Harry waited in silence for a second goblin, somewhat rounder than the first with less hair on his head and more on his chin, to appear from one of the many halls and approach. He stepped up to the goblin who had summoned him and listened as the situation was explained to him in the harsh cadence of gobbledegook. When all that could be said was spoken, he turned his attention to Harry.
"You've come to apologize and explain your actions?"
Harry nodded. "I admire this bank and the work it does greatly, I wouldn't have done what I did unless I had no other choice. My companions and I broke into the Lestrange vault and stole the cup because it was one of several objects that kept Voldemort tethered to this earth. If I didn't destroy it, I wouldn't have been able to kill him."
"And the dragon?"
Harry shrugged sheepishly. "We needed a way out."
The goblin's face remained impassive, entirely inscrutable to Harry's untrained eyes. "What you sought from the vault of the Lestranges was not gold or jewels, but an item that helped you bring about the defeat of the dark lord?"
"I took nothing else," Harry swore.
"Then you will pay a fee of one hundred galleons to Gringotts and we will accept you once again into our establishment."
Harry only barely refrained from gaping. One hundred galleons was pocket change when compared to what he held in his vaults. He'd expected to be groveling and begging for far longer before the goblins even began to consider accepting half of his wealth as apology. But who was he to sneer at an unexpected turn of good fortune, especially when thus far his life had been plagued by the opposite?
"Of course," he agreed with an easy nod, "it's the least I can do."
The goblin nodded curtly. "The fee will be drafted from your main vault. Is there anything else we can do for you this evening?"
"Oh, yes. I'd like to visit the Black family vault, I've got a key right here." He fumbled in his pockets for a few moments before producing the heavy vault key.
The goblins granted it a cursory examination before nodding and leading him back to the carts that would take him down to his vault.
The mounds of gold, silver, and bronze that towered in semi-organized heaps throughout the cavernous room were ignored in lieu of the stacked trunks along the walls. They were filled with innumerable books and tapestries and dusty old parchments that were no doubt of great value to the Black family but held very little interest for Harry who sifted through the richly detailed family trees with disinterested haste.
It still took him the better part of an hour to find the texts he was in need of, but find them he did. A full collection of books with multiple different and detailed techniques on how to learn and eventually master Occlumency were shrunk down and tucked into his pocket and Harry, already feeling incredibly accomplished, returned topside.
The bank had grown busier in his time below ground, nearly every teller had a line of at least five wizards or witches patiently waiting their turns. Harry hadn't brought a cloak with him, Voldemort and his cloaked followers were still too fresh of a memory for everyone, so he knew that walking through Diagon Alley in the early summer with a heavy cloak and a hood over his head would draw far more attention than going without one, Boy-Who-Lived or not. So he bowed his head, allowing his slightly longer hair to fall over his forehead and eyes and casually walked across the hall. He was only a few meters away from the exit, a mere dozen or so steps before he could celebrate a successful escape, but then a hand fell on his shoulder, heavy and constricting enough to halt him in his steps.
"Mr. Potter." It was Xenophilius Lovegood of all people, Harry hadn't seen the man since he'd tried to turn him over to the Death Eaters and, quite frankly, he looked awful.
"Mr. Lovegood." Harry tried for a smile, but even to him it felt incredibly insincere. "It's good to see you well."
Xenophilius laughed shortly. "What a lovely lie. Last we met, I tried to hand you over to the dark lord's forces, I'd fear for your mental health if you were happy to see me."